


Swinging for the Fences

by WelpThisIsHappening



Series: You Play Ball Like a Girl [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 02:51:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12831753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Emma Swan wakes up on Thanksgiving morning to find her boyfriend baking with her best friend, her quasi older-brother mysteriously absent and several different phones ringing. Nonstop. She's never been one for surprises, but she might enjoy a few of these. At least this time through the lineup.Or: a Thanksgiving-themed You Play Ball Like a Girl sequel with some pie, some banter and some angst.





	Swinging for the Fences

“Alright, how early did you get up this year?”

Mary Margaret spun on the spot, widening her eyes at Emma as she stared at her and absent mindedly wiped her hands on the apron she was wearing. “And what are you wearing, exactly?” Emma added, glancing down at the almost oppressively-domestic piece of clothing.

“It’s an apron,” Mary Margaret said slowly, drawing her hand down next to her as if she were modeling it.

“I know what it’s called,” Emma argued, leaning against the wall in the kitchen. “I’m just curious why you’re wearing it.”

“So my clothes don’t get dirty.”  
  
“I have literally never seen you wear an apron in my entire life. Why exactly are you starting now?”  
  
“Because your boyfriend is a very messy baker.”  
  
Emma narrowed her eyes again, wondering what exactly she had missed by not getting up at the crack of dawn on Thanksgiving.

Apparently a lot.

She had every intention of getting up. Really. She promised Mary Margaret she’d help cook _something_ this year, but then her alarm had gone off and she hadn’t gotten out of the Garden until after midnight the night before and the bed was so warm. Killian barely finished saying _go back to sleep, love_ before she was absolutely asleep again already.

He was gone by the time she finally had woken up – five blocks away and, apparently, baking something with Mary Margaret.

Everything was so domestic it hurt.

“What?” Emma asked, glancing around the kitchen like she expected Killian to appear suddenly.

He did – just not from the location she’d expected. He came out of her room. Or her old room. Maybe it was still her room.

Emma wasn’t really sure on the semantics.

“Swan,” he mumbled softly, walking towards her and wrapping his arm around her waist. He pulled her up against his side and kissed the top of her head lightly, earning a dramatic sigh from Mary Margaret who, it appeared, was still trying to get flour off her hands.

“Where’d you come from?” Emma asked, glancing up. He was smiling, but something was _off_. It didn’t really reach his eyes and he had flour all the way down the side of his shirt. “And did actually _roll_ in the flour?”

“Baking’s not an exact science, love,” he laughed. “Trust me, you’ll appreciate the final product though.”  
  
“Which is?”  
  
“Four different types of pies,” Mary Margaret answered, finally resorting to the sink to wash her hands and try to get the flour out from underneath her nails.

“How?” Emma asked, glancing towards the oven as if it might actually explode from all the different food it was holding.

“That, however, is an exact science,” Killian said, pulling a sheet of paper out of his back pocket and handing it to Emma.

He’d hand-written a Thanksgiving cooking schedule.

Her heart was going to explode.

And then maybe the oven also.

“You got here at six in the morning?” Emma gaped, turning to stare at him. Killian shrugged.

“More like 5:30.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“You all need to be fed, Swan,” he said reasonably, grinning over her shoulder at Mary Margaret who made some sort of tutting noise in the back of her throat.

“There’s only four of us,” Emma argued.

Mary Margaret made the noise again and Emma lowered her eyebrows, feeling, once again, like she was missing something.

“What’s going on?” she asked, glancing between boyfriend and best friend with so much speed she was certain she was giving her eyes whiplash. “And where’s David?”  
  
“It’s a surprise,” Killian muttered, kissing Emma again and handing the schedule to Mary Margaret. “You need to turn the turkey pan in like forty-five minutes.”  
  
“I have my own copy, Killian,” she said patiently. “I know when to turn the turkey pan. Or when to make you do it because I can’t lift it.”  
  
“You guys made copies of your cooking schedule?” Emma said, voice reaching near-screech levels faster than she expected.  
  
Mary Margaret shrugged, reaching behind her to retie her apron straps and smiled conspiratorially at Killian.

“I hate surprises,” Emma mumbled.

“You’ll like this one,” Mary Margaret promised.

“You know what it is?”  
  
“Who do you think told David where to go?”  
  
“Oh my God.”

“Relax, Swan,” Killian said, dropping his arm to go stir something. “It’s a good surprise, I promise.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Hey, did we get whipped cream?” Mary Margaret interrupted, tapping Killian’s shoulder as she walked towards the refrigerator.

He hummed a _yes_ as Mary Margaret opened the door, moving several things out of the way to pull the can out of the back corner. The microwave dinged and Emma was surprised either one of them actually heard it, so focused on their apparent cooking schedule.

“What’s the whipped cream for?” Emma asked, leaning against the wall again as Killian moved to take care of the still-dinging microwave.

“The pies,” Mary Margaret answered, like it was obvious.

“The four pies you’ve made?”

“Yuh huh.”  
  
The microwave door slammed shut and Emma’s eyes darted over to the sound, landing on the mug in Killian’s hand. “Drink, Swan,” he said, all but pushing the steaming thing towards her. “You’ll feel better.”  
  
“Did you just have this waiting for whenever I got over here?”  
  
Killian made some sort of noise that was neither a yes nor a no and smiled at Emma. “Drink, Swan,” he repeated.

She did feel better.

She just wouldn’t admit it.

Mary Margaret and Killian moved around each other in the small walk-up kitchen with ease and Emma silently wondered if they’d practiced this before. It all worked perfectly, like some weird, Thanksgiving cooking dance.

And then Mary Margaret stopped moving.

“I want to tell you guys something,” she said suddenly.

“If it’s about the turkey pan, I think Killian can move it pretty easily,” Emma said, smiling slightly and on her second cup of hot chocolate.

She was much more awake now.

“No, it’s not about the turkey pan,” Mary Margaret said quietly. She scuffed her foot along the kitchen floor and took a deep breath. “It’s about...some future type stuff.”

Emma’s eyes darted towards Killian – still stirring something. “What’s going on Mary Margaret?” he asked.

Mary Margaret looked nervous, rolling back on her heels slightly. “I don’t know what the rules are here, but I’m breaking them anyway because I want to and it’s Thanksgiving and, well, I don’t care about the rules.”

“You don’t have to.”  
  
“No, no, you should know. David would tell you himself, but I think he’s kind of nervous and certain that saying anything to you will jinx it, but the the Musketeers don’t have secrets, so..”  
  
“You’re stalling, M’s,” Emma accused.

Mary Margaret sighed loudly. “Well, I’m not really giving any details. Not really.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“We are….trying to have a kid.”

Emma felt her jaw drop and the air she absolutely was not holding seemed to rush out of her in one, great big huff that seemed to change the entire gravity of the room. Mary Margaret bit her lip. And it was, easily, the most adult sentence any of them had ever uttered, but it wasn’t entirely surprising either and, maybe, Emma was happy.

She was absolutely happy.

Killian straightened in front of the stove, finally, pulling the spoon out of _whatever_ he was stirring and placing it on the paper towel next to him. He turned to stare at Mary Margaret, a thoughtful look on his face and Emma waited for the response – trying not to breathe too erratically.

“Congratulations,” he smiled.

Mary Margaret laughed – the noise sounded just a little crazy in the suddenly very-quiet kitchen – and glanced back at Emma again.

“What?” Emma asked, staring at Killian. “That’s it?”  
  
“Isn’t this how it’s all supposed to happen, Swan?,” he asked and he was absolutely teasing her. She hadn’t had enough hot chocolate for any of this. “This is a good thing, right?” Emma nodded slowly, blinking a bit quicker than normal and she’d never hear the end of it if she started crying in the kitchen. She was glad David wasn’t there. “Then, again, congratulations, Mary Margaret.”  
  
“I mean, nothing’s happened yet,” Mary Margaret muttered, a blush rising in her cheeks when she suddenly found the ground more interesting than their conversation. “I just...I don’t know giving you guys a heads up sounds absolutely awful.”

Emma laughed, the noise not sounding particularly dignified at whatever time it was in the morning. Killian, finally, moved away from the stove, slinging his arm around her shoulders and kissing the top of her head and _that_ felt a little adult too.

It felt a little _for the rest of the lives_ if she were being totally honest with herself.

“You’re going to be so ridiculously good at this, M’s,” Emma promised, leaning forward to squeeze Mary Margaret’s forearm. “I mean you’ve had so much experience with me, after all.”  
  
“I am not your mother.”  
  
“Ehhhhh…..ask David. He’ll agree with me.”  
  
“He didn’t want to say anything in case it...weirded you out.”  
  
“And those were the words he used, then?”  
  
“You know it’s not,” Mary Margaret sighed. “He was worried.”  
  
Emma made a face, leaning forward and Killian moved with her and they were a weird mess of limbs and none of them tried to move away from each other. “He shouldn’t be,” Emma said. “This is good. Better. Perfect. I promise, I won’t try and do anything weird when David gets here.”

Killian pressed another kiss to her hair and his laughter mixed with Mary Margaret’s as he opened up the oven door to check on the turkey pan and its need to be turned at some point.

The door opened around the corner and Emma heard voices as the footsteps sounded in the apartment.

“Surprise,” Mary Margaret mumbled, smiling at her as she walked around the corner towards the sounds.

Emma glanced at Kilian – practically _beaming_ at her now – and followed Mary Margaret. She felt a body fly towards her and arms wrap around her tightly as David mumbled something that sounded vaguely like _don’t kill her Elsa_ and Emma’s breath caught in her throat.

Elsa was there – arms wrapped tightly around her with seemingly no intention of letting her go any time soon – and if Emma could actually lift her head up, she assumed Ingrid wasn’t far behind.

“I can’t breathe, El,” she said, squeezing her sister tightly back. Elsa just laughed and, suddenly, Ingrid was there – hands on both of their arms and a smile so wide that Emma could hardly process it.

“Surprise,” she said softly, tugging on Emma’s sleeve.

Emma glanced to her left, meeting Killian’s eyes, leaning against the small kitchen entryway with his feet crossed at the ankles. She pulled herself out of Elsa’s vice-like hold and took two steps towards him.

He just smirked at her.

“Did you do this?” she asked, pulling lightly on one of the belt loops of his jeans.

“Surprise.”  
  
“That’s not necessarily an answer.”  
  
“He absolutely did this,” Elsa said, sliding up against Emma’s side and staring pointedly at her hooked finger.

“But you guys are supposed to be in Portland.”

Emma wasn’t quite sure what she was arguing – she was happy, _ridiculously_ happy – but she couldn’t quite process what was going on. Ingrid was supposed to be visiting Elsa in Portland. They were supposed to have their own Thanksgiving dinner there because Emma had a game on Friday afternoon – some sort of ridiculous holiday event that the NBA had implemented that season, trying to build off the Christmas Day extravaganza – and then they’d all be together in Storybrooke for Christmas.

There had been a plan.

“And now we’re not in Portland,” Elsa said simply.

“Killian figured it all out,” Ingrid said, nodding towards him with a small smile on her face. “Got the tickets and the hotel and reservations somewhere tomorrow night. We’re supposed to meet you somewhere on 9th Avenue after your game.”

Emma’s mouth was hanging open and she felt all the oxygen in her lungs rush out in one loud huff. Everyone was smiling and her mouth was hanging open.

“And you both knew about all of this?” she asked, glancing at Mary Margaret and David behind her.

“Surprise!” David half-shouted and Emma rolled her eyes.

“Someone needs to pick another word.”  
  
“I don’t know that there’s another word, love,” Killian said softly, slipping his hand into Emma’s with practiced ease.

Emma was silent for a moment, staring at Ingrid and Elsa and the smiles on their faces. “I guess we can go with surprise,” she said.

She squeezed Killian’s hand – realizing after the fact that it was his left hand – and traced her thumb over one of the scars there. His arm tensed slightly next to hers and his phone buzzed softly from its spot in his pocket.

“You want to answer that?” Emma asked, turning so she was facing him.

“No,” he said quickly. “I know who it is.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.”

Emma looked at him expectantly, waiting for another answer, but it never came. Killian smiled at her again, reaching his free hand up to push her hair off her shoulder and kiss softly just behind her ear. “You good with this, Swan?” he asked. “I know surprises aren’t really your thing, but I just figured you’d want…”

She didn’t let him finish that thought.

She kissed him instead – ignoring the very loud groan from Elsa and Mary Margaret’s quiet laugh. David yelled _gross_ as he walked by, swinging open the refrigerator door and grabbing something out of it that made Mary Margaret yell to _wait until after dinner_ and Emma pulled back, smile all but plastered on her face.

“I did want,” she said softly, putting her hand on Killian’s cheek. “I love you.”  
  
He turned his head to kiss the inside of her hand and Emma felt his lips turn up. “I love you too.”  
  
“If you guys are done acting like teenagers, we’ve got to talk about where Mary Margaret and David’s inevitably genius-level kid is going to go to college,” Elsa said, jumping up on the counter in the kitchen with a grace that made Emma shake her head.

“How do you know that?” Emma asked.

Elsa just grinned. “I know everything.”

“What do you think, Swan?” Killian asked, glancing back at Elsa. “Are we done acting like teenagers?”  
  
“Probably not.”

Killian laughed and ducked his head down to kiss her again – much to the dismay of her entire family jam packed in the kitchen.

Somewhere in the back of Emma’s mind, the 12-year-old kid who never thought she’d be wanted, who landed on Ingrid’s doorstep with a suitcase in her hand and a bitter, jaded outlook a 12-year-old should never have, practically whooped in celebration.

Operation: Plan Mini-Nolan’s Future, The Thanksgiving Edition, but Don’t Jinx It rolled on throughout dinner.

Killian had appropriately turned the turkey pan as instructed and Mary Margaret’s food was nothing short of phenomenal.

Emma couldn’t stop smiling.

It might have had something to do with the fact that Killian’s left hand rested on her knee the entire time they were eating, but that was a different story altogether.

“Pie?” David asked as soon as – some – of the plates and food were removed from the table, eyes falling expectantly on Mary Margaret. “I know there’s an exorbitant amount of pie in the fridge.”

“There is, but we’re waiting on...stuff,” Mary Margaret said.

Her eyes landed on Killian again and Emma knew there was something else going on. “Is this another surprise?” she groaned.

Killian nodded, raising his eyebrows quickly and that _stupid_ smirk could probably move mountains or something ridiculous. He jumped out of his seat as his phone rang, hand squeezing Emma’s shoulder as he all but ran towards the door.

“This is absurd,” Emma muttered.

“He’s got a plan, Emma,” Ingrid said next to her.

“That you know about? Did everyone know about this except me?”  
  
“It was _for_ you.”  
  
The door slammed shut a few moments later and Emma spun in her chair, eyes wide for – she hoped – the final surprise of the day “Batting third for the University of Virginia, right fielder, Henry Davidson,” Killian said, voice rising like he was talking through a microphone.

“You don’t know that I’m batting third yet,” Henry argued.

“I’ve got sources.”  
  
“Did Jason tell you that already?” Henry asked, seemingly forgetting about the family sitting in the living room he’d just walked in to. “Because that’s totally lame if he’s telling you before me.”  
  
“A good journalist never reveals his sources,” Killian muttered, putting both his hands on Henry’s shoulders to spin him back around. “Focus on this first.”  
  
Henry made a face, but smiled when he saw Emma, waving his hand slightly like they weren’t standing in the middle of her former apartment. “Hey,” he said, smiling. “Surprise.”  
  
Emma shook her head, eyes flicking between the teenager in front of her and the very pleased-with-himself Killian on his side. “I can’t believe you did all of this,” she said. Killian shrugged and Emma stood up quickly, pulling Henry into the same kind of chokehold hug Elsa had given her before. “Hey, kid,” she said, doing her best to make sure her voice didn’t shake.

“Did David say something about pie?”  
  
“Killian and M’s have been up since 5:30 baking pie.”  
  
Henry tilted his head back to throw a wide-eyed look at Killian. “5:30? Seriously?”  
  
“We had a schedule,” Killian answered.

“What kind of pie?”  
  
“Apple, pumpkin, chocolate and key lime,” Mary Margaret listed off.

“Key lime? That’s not exactly Thanksgiving-y.”  
  
“That’s for Emma and David. They’ll eat the entire thing between the two of them.”  
  
“Probably not the _entire_ thing, M’s,” Emma sighed, but David didn’t look convinced.  
  
“It’s been known to happen,” he said. 

Ingrid coughed slightly next to Emma and she spun to look at her, eyes open wide with unspoken question. “You want to introduce us?” Ingrid asked, nodding towards Elsa.

“Oh,” Emma sputtered. “Yeah, yeah, I totally forgot. Henry,” she said, grabbing his shoulder and turning him towards the table. “This is Ingrid, she’s the reason things got better when I finally got out of foster care and that’s my sister Elsa.”  
  
“Hey,” Henry said, sticking out his hand towards Ingrid who shook it warmly.

“It’s so nice to meet you in person, Henry,” Ingrid said and Emma’s heart did something ridiculous and family-oriented. “Emma talks about you all the time.”  
  
“Yeah?” Henry asked, sounding a bit nervous.

Emma delved into stage-mom territory far more than she liked to admit. She heard Killian laugh softly behind her and leaned against his side when he moved closer, taking over the spot Henry vacated when he shook Elsa’s hand on the other side of the table.

“You’re practically a celebrity,” Elsa said, eyes bright. “And you’ve got a pretty strong fan base in Storybrooke, for whatever that’s worth. They read every single one of Emma’s stories, so they’ve been rooting right along with you since that first one ran.”  
  
Henry looked a bit shellshocked – overwhelmed with _people_ in a way that Emma understood very well at the moment – and Emma brushed off her sister quickly, shooting a warning glare her way.

Elsa understood.

Foster kids recognized other foster kids – or something like that.

“Can we eat the pie now?” David asked again and Henry nodded enthusiastically, looking at Mary Margaret.

“I’m here for dessert,” he said.

“You’re supposed to be here to see us,” Killian laughed, pushing a chair in Henry’s direction. “And provide updates on the UVA batting order.”  
  
“I don’t have updates on the UVA batting order, so I guess I’m just here for you guys. And the pie.”  
  
“I suppose that’s acceptable.”  
  
“Aren’t your foster parents curious where you are?” Emma asked.

“Nah, of course not,” Henry answered, sinking into the chair. “I mean, they know. Killian made me promise I’d tell them. Something about being on the up and up.”  
  
“Straight and narrow,” Killian corrected. “Stop mixing up my clichés.”  
  
“Either or. They don’t really care where I go. I hate dinner with them, so that’s something. I’m not even in the city that long. Just a couple of days and then I’ve got to go back for fall workouts.”  
  
“And his girlfriend,” Killian added, nudging his shoulder into Emma’s. She gasped at Henry, mouth falling open again.

“What?” she asked, only then realizing that the rest of the group had left the three of them alone at the table.

Emma appreciated that.

“Killian,” Henry whined. “Come on.”  
  
Killian winked at Emma, walking around Henry to sit down next to her and wrap his arm around her shoulder. “I’m just going off what you told me,” he said. “Generally speaking asking a girl for coffee and paying for it is considered a date.” Emma’s head snapped towards Killian and she made a face, smiling at him. “What?” he asked.

“The very first time we met, you asked me for coffee and paid for it.”  
  
Henry laughed loudly, leaning against his chair and all but throwing his head over the back. “Are you serious?” he choked out.

Emma nodded.

Killian looked a little flustered.“What’s your point, Swan?”  
  
“My point is you just told Henry that was a date.”  
  
“Maybe it was.”  
  
“Maybe?”  
  
Henry was still laughing. “It was,” Killian muttered softly, eyes falling towards the front of Emma’s shirt. The ring had fallen out and was sitting on top of the fabric like some sort of flashing neon sign – possibly with sound effects for good measure – regarding their relationship. Emma didn’t kiss him – although she wanted to, badly – just smiled at him and bit her lip tightly. “Or, at least I wanted it to be,” Killian added, voice so quiet Emma could barely even hear him.

“Teenagers!” Elsa shouted from the kitchen, leaning against the open space that looked into the living room. “Henry, God, just smack them or something. It’s so gross.”  
  
Emma sighed and shook her head, finally looking away from Killian, and turned back towards Henry. “So, kid,” she said, “what’s this girl’s name?”  
  
Henry rolled his eyes and shot Killian another glare. “You know I only told you that.”  
  
Emma wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information – probably file it away for moments when work got crazy or they wouldn’t let her go to away games or someone said something stupid about a girl in the Knicks locker room.

She’d remember that Henry talked to Killian about girls and baseball and _everything_ and she’d remember that there were good things out there too.

“What’s her name?” Emma repeated.

Henry groaned before answering. “Violet,” he muttered.

“Pretty.”  
  
“Yeah.”

“You took her to get coffee?”

Killian’s hand fell down Emma’s back, toying with the bottom of her shirt almost as if he wasn’t even thinking about it and she tried very hard not to lean into the feel of his fingers on her skin. “She’s in my European history class,” Henry said. “We were studying.” Emma made a significant face and Henry groaned again. “She’s just a friend.”  
  
“Yuh uh.”  
  
“Your phone’s gone off half a dozen times since you walked in the door,” Killian said. “I’d say that’s a very persistent friend.”  
  
“You guys are the worst,” Henry sighed.

“You should answer her,” Emma said, pushing Henry’s phone across the table back towards his hand. “Talk to her about pie or something.”  
  
“Don’t talk to her about pie,” David said, walking in from the kitchen with a dish towel over his shoulder. “Talk to her about baseball.”

“Or about when she’s getting back to campus,” Mary Margaret added, shouting the suggestion from in front of the sink.

Henry’s eyes moved around quickly before landing on Killian. “What do you think?” he asked.

Killian’s fingers stilled on Emma’s back and he didn’t answer for a second. “Depends on what she said.”  
  
Henry swiped his finger across the phone screen and read off the latest message. “She asked where I was.”  
  
“So you tell her you’re with your family and then you talk about pie.”

Henry nodded quickly, fingers racing across the screen, his focus entirely focused on anything _but_ the four pies Mary Margaret and Killian had made that morning.

“Romance expert,” Emma muttered, turning to glance at Killian.

He laughed softly, shaking his head as his fingers started to move again. “As long as you think so, Swan, I’m not really concerned with anybody else.”  
  
“What a line.”  
  
Killian opened his mouth to answer her – some sort of answer that Emma was certain would make her stomach flip again – but his phone interrupted him, buzzing loudly on the table.

“Seriously, who is that?” Emma asked, glancing down. Blocked number. “Weird,” she continued. Killian nodded stiffly, reaching out to grab the phone and his hand practically covered the entire thing.

“I should probably take this,” he said, standing up and walking towards the front door.

“Ok,” Emma answered, but he was practically in the hallway before she’d even finished speaking.

“Everything ok?” Elsa asked, sinking into the now-empty seat next to Emma.

“Yeah, it’s definitely weird, he keeps getting these phone calls from the same blocked number. I’ve never seen him actually answer it.”  
  
“Weird.”  
  
Emma nodded again and glanced back towards the front door, wondering what it was exactly that Killian wasn’t telling her.

He didn’t make it back in for pie.

Twenty minutes and one question regarding text message fodder for Violet later, Emma fell into journalist mode and walked into the hallway.

He wasn’t on the phone. He wasn’t even talking. He was sitting just to the right of the door, leaning against the wall with his head resting on his knees.

Killian’s head snapped up when he heard Emma come out and she nearly gasped when she saw his face.

He looked _young_ and slightly terrified, eyes wide and maybe even a little red, like he’d been rubbing them for the better part of the last 20 minutes.

“Did I miss pie?” he asked, sliding over slightly so Emma could sit down.

She shook her head. “There’s so much pie in that refrigerator, no one will miss pie for the next week, at least.”

Killian laughed softly at that and moved his forehead back to his knees – almost like he couldn’t quite bring himself to keep it upright.

“What’s going on?” Emma asked. “You’re being all mysterious.”  
  
“You know, when I was Henry’s age, I would have thought a girl telling me I was _all mysterious_ was the epitome of praise.”  
  
“And now?”  
  
“Now I think I’m not telling you something I should and I hate it.”  
  
Emma sighed softly, one side of her mouth pulling up as she reached her hand up to push her fingers into his hair. “I just want to help.”  
  
“I know you do, love.”  
  
“Does this have something to do with that blocked number?”  
  
Killian nodded, head knocking against his knees in the process. His hand fell down, gripping the inside of Emma’s thigh tightly like he was using it as an anchor.

“It isn’t always blocked,” he said. “Sometimes it’s an actual number. 917 area code.”  
  
“917? That’s New York.”  
  
He hummed in agreement and, finally, lifted his head up to look at her.

Emma did her best to keep her face neutral, but that proved to be more difficult than she expected.

Killian Jones was _nervous_ – they both were. Each of them had miles and miles of walls around them when they first met, built up by years of disappointment and almost-theres and people living.

And in the last two years, Emma felt her walls crumble just a bit.

Or, rather, completely.

Because Killian Jones looked at her like he really _did_ love her more than anything and Emma was going to be damned if he didn’t feel the same.

So she didn’t keep her face neutral – couldn’t even when she tried – and poured every single emotion she had for him into her expression.

“Did you answer this time?” she asked.

“I answered two weeks ago.”

“Did they say who it was?” Killian’s hand tightened and he nodded. “And?”  
  
“He said he was my father.”  
  
In the grand scheme of answers Emma was expecting, that had been the absolute last one. She hadn’t even considered the possibility. Killian laughed darkly, leaning forward to kiss behind Emma’s ear again – a distraction. She shook him off slightly, turning and pushing his legs down so they stretched out in front of him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.  
  
He sighed against her neck and laughed again at the goosebumps he left in his wake before pulling away from Emma to look at her apologetically. “I didn’t want to believe it myself, let alone tell you. He’s been calling for weeks. Switching up the numbers on the off chance I’d pick up. I finally did one day and he tried to talk to me about Liam and my mom and I hung up on him.”  
  
“That seems fair.”  
  
“He said he hoped I would have remembered his voice when he talked,” Killian said, practically spitting out the words. “I barely even remember _him_ , how am I supposed to remember what he sounds like?”

“What does he want?”

Killian shrugged. “I haven’t really given him enough time to talk to figure that part out yet.”  
  
“But he called today. And you answered the phone.”  
  
“He called six times,” Killian sighed. “Six. And he never leaves messages. It’s like he knows exactly what to do to drive me crazy.”  
  
“You really think it is your dad?”

“I don’t know why someone would lie about that. Seems like a pretty sick joke, don’t you think?”  
  
Emma nodded. “Why’d you answer that last call?”  
  
“I don’t know why. I think it was more frustration than anything.”  
  
“And?”

“And he tried to talk about Liam again. Fucking asshole. Something about Thanksgiving when I was a kid and Liam making mashed potatoes and I nearly lost my mind. He said he just wanted to talk to his son on Thanksgiving. That it was the start of the holiday season and some cliché about family.”  
  
The words fell out of his mouth quickly and Emma could feel the anger pulsing off him, but there was something else there too – something that had made him rub his eyes red and grip her leg like it was the only thing that was keeping him from falling through the floor.

Emma started as an orphan – felt that way from her earliest memories – but Killian was different.

He’d had a family.

But somewhere along the line, all of that had been stripped away. His dad and his mom and Liam, all gone and all out of Killian’s control.

Liam was still his hero and somewhere in the back of his mind that connection to his brother was the one thing that had kept him so focused and determined all these years.

And now some guy – a voice behind a phone number – was trying to step back into a the family role like he’d never walked away from a six-year-old kid.

Emma kind of hated him.

Killian Jones deserved so much more than what he got.

“You are with your family,” she said softly.

His eyes met hers and Emma felt him relax. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah.”  
  
“I don’t know what to do, Swan,” Killian said, voice dropping low. “I kind of hate him. I don’t even really remember him and I kind of hate him. You think he even knows anything about me? I'm not really sure how he found me.”  
  
“He didn’t say? I feel like you’d lead with that.”  
  
“No,” he said, finally taking his hand off Emma’s leg to wrap around her shoulders and pull her flush against his side. “He’s just trying to get me to have some kind of conversation with him. It’s a new York number and I don’t even know if he’s actually in New York. He’s never said. He knew I was a reporter though, made some sort of comment about me not asking any questions or something.”  
  
“He knew you were a writer?”  
  
Killian shrugged. “All he’d have to do is google my name to figure that out. I wonder if he knows about baseball too. You think he followed that?” He turned to look at her eyes wide and – maybe – even a little hopeful and Emma was certain she felt her heart break just a bit at the sight.

“Maybe,” she said evasively – something Killian certainly picked up on. “Would you have wanted him to?”  
  
“Maybe,” he answered “We didn’t really get that far in the conversation again. He mentioned Liam again and I just hung up.”  
  
Emma laughed sadly and leaned her head on Killian’s shoulder. “You don’t have to want anything from him, you know.”  
  
“I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s ok too.”  
  
Killian didn’t say anything for a few moments and Emma felt his heart thud under where her hand was resting on his chest, counting the beats like some kind of metronome. “Still with me, Swan?” he asked after a few more minutes of silence and Emma glanced up to find him smiling at her.

“Always,” she said.

“That’s an awfully long time.”  
  
“The longest.”  
  
“And you’re cool with that?”  
  
“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it,” Emma said.

Killian stared at her, smile moving across his face and his arm dropped down, hand wrapping around her waist and forcing Emma to turn and face him, legs pulled out until they were resting perpendicular over his own.

“What are you doing?” she laughed, knowing full well what he was doing. He pulled her up until she was sitting on his legs and Emma ignored the way she felt him _everywhere_ all at once.

They were inches away from the front door.

She almost didn’t care.  
  
Killian very clearly didn’t care.

“You know I wasn’t entirely honest before,” he said, head dropping to her neck as he ran his teeth just above the collar of her shirt. It sent shivers down Emma’s spine.

“About what?”  
  
“Not knowing what I want.”  
  
“That so?”

He hummed against her neck and Emma shivered slightly at the feel of it. “I want you,” he said softly. “Always.”

Emma bit her lip tightly – determined not to groan out loud a few inches away from the apartment door – and ground her hips down slightly. He groaned instead. She felt kind of triumphant at that.

“That’s awfully romantic,” she mumbled.

“If memory serves, love, you told me I was a romance master just a few minutes ago.”  
  
“That was almost an hour ago.”  
  
“Doesn’t change the fact that you said it.”

Emma was getting distracted from the distraction by the banter and pressed herself up slightly so she could work some leverage by grabbing his hips.

“You know, I feel like we’ve done this before,” Killian muttered.

“Constantly,” Emma said. “They’re not wrong, we are acting like teenagers.”  
  
“Not what I meant.” He bit out the words slowly, squeezing his eyes closed tightly as Emma moved – almost entirely unintentionally – to stay sitting upright. Killian’s hand fell low on her back, steadying her and glared pointedly at her.

“What did you mean?”

“This,” he said, pushing his hand up under her shirt and pulling Emma’s body against his forcefully. “I feel like we’ve done the whole making out in the hallway on Thanksgiving thing before.”  
  
“That’s because we have.”  
  
“Such a good memory, love.”  
  
“That’s just because you get dark and broody on holidays.”  
  
“And you divulge emotional secrets,” he countered, reaching up to kiss her soundly before she could come back with some sort of witty retort.

She lost all sense of time and direction and fathers appearing out of nowhere to call on national holidays while Killian was kissing her, hips bucking up seemingly of their own accord and setting some sort of crazy rhythm in the hallway.

“For what it’s worth,” he said slowly, dragging his lips back down her neck. “I appreciate your emotional secrets quite a bit, Swan.”  
  
Emma smiled and made some sort of absurd sound that sounded like a giggle. “I mean it,” she said, working her way over the words as his fingers moved along the top of her jeans.

“I know you do, love. And so do I. More than anything.”  
  
“We should probably go back inside at one point.”  
  
“You may have to give me a couple of minutes without you sitting on top of me. Especially if you ever want me to be able to look Ingrid or Elsa in the eye ever again.”  
  
Emma laughed and kissed him again. “That’s the last one, I promise,” she said, standing up quickly and twisting her shirt back down.

“Until we get home at least.”  
  
Killian took a deep breath, standing up as well and running his hand through his hair. There was no point. Everyone would know what they’d done as soon as they walked back into the apartment.

He pulled on the chain around Emma’s neck slightly, tugging the ring out from behind the shirt so that it was sitting on top of the fabric again. Emma glanced down at it and saw Killian smile out of the corner of her eye.

“Some sort of emotional secret,” he mumbled, hand trailing down the front of her shirt. Emma nodded, silenced again with a sentence and his voice and the way he looked at her like he really meant _more than anything_ every time he said it.

“I don’t think I’m going to answer him anymore,” Killian continued.

“No?”  
  
He shook his head. “I don’t want to or need to or something like that. You’re right, you know. About being with my family.”

Emma’s heart stuttered in her chest. “I liked this surprise.”  
  
“I had a feeling you might.”  
  
“I love you.”  
  
“I love you too,” he said, brushing his fingers over Emma’s side and turning back towards the door. “I just...I wanted to make sure you were happy.”  
  
Emma closed her eyes slightly, trying to keep her breathing normal. “I know you do. And I am. More than anything.”  
  
She saw the moment he realized she was quoting _him_ and Killian’s answering smile was so bright and so big that Emma leaned up to kiss him again without even considering the family on the other side of the door and his attempts to make himself presentable in front of them.

Killian groaned slightly – although whether that was from the kiss or trying to keep himself in check in the middle of the hallway, Emma wasn’t quite sure. “Swan,” he sighed against her lips. “Your family.”  
  
“Your family,” she countered, widening her eyes meaningfully.

He smiled again and shook his head, lacing his fingers with her and wrapping his other hand around the doorknob. “Come on love, if we don’t go inside now, I’m not sure I’ll ever go.”

He swung open the door, meeting five expectant pairs of eyes and glanced over his shoulder at Emma. “Plus, we’ve got to eat pie.”

* * *

 

Emma couldn’t understand what all these people doing at Madison Square Garden.

It was the day after Thanksgiving.

They should be home. Or shopping. Or asleep.

Emma wished she was asleep – she was so tired she swore her _bones_ were exhausted – hours spent in Mary Margaret and David’s living room the night before discussing dessert options for the re-planned wedding and how Henry could ask Violet for coffee again without making it seem like too much of a date.

It was totally a date.

He totally wanted to date her – a fact that Killian and David both made sure to point out several times during the course of the night.

She was tired and happy and still practically bursting with pie and all Emma wanted to do was be anywhere but the sideline at Madison Square Garden.

Except that’s exactly where she was, crammed into the space with several thousand people who were intent on making the NBA believe that games on holidays were a good thing.

She supposed it was penance of some sort.

After all, a week off at Christmas was hard to come by, let alone for an NBA beat writer who had to explain to Jefferson the new sports editor what small-town traditions were. Emma still wasn’t entirely certain he understood.

But he’d given her the time off anyway.

They were probably glad her stories wouldn’t take up space and use ink.

Emma walked through the metal detector in a pie-induced, post-holiday daze, barely nodding towards the security guard at the elevator and making her way into the media room before she’d really even acknowledge that her feet were moving.

She was certain a game happened, but Emma was more focused on getting her quotes and writing her story and getting the heck out of there.

That was, of course, until she walked into the locker room post-game and felt someone move next to her as she stood a few feet away from Kristap Porzingis’ locker.

Kristoff Glace had been working as the Knicks lead trainer since the start of the season – moving to New York after a few years in Minnesota – and over the last few months he and Emma settled into easy conversations after games and entirely off-the-record discussions of the team’s biggest stars training regiments.

Kristoff was obsessed with ice baths – certain that the post-game ritual would revolutionize the entire sports industry if only _everyone_ would take them more seriously – and Emma mentally prepared herself for another foray into the discussion of different varieties of ice when he coughed pointedly next to her.

“Hey,” she said softly, trying to make sure her phone was pushed far enough away from her that her voice wouldn’t get picked up on the recording. “What’s up?”  
  
“Did you hear?” Kristoff asked, eyes darting around the small media scrum in front of them.  
  
“Did I hear what?”

He looked down at her and Emma narrowed her eyes as she met his gaze – he looked a little bit frantic. Kristoff tugged on her arm and Emma rolled her eyes, nodding towards a still-talking Porzingis.

“Give me two minutes to finish this,” she said.

Kristoff nodded seriously, taking a few steps back and Emma pushed back into the circle, twisting her body slightly so she could fit in between two other reporters. She felt one of them glare at her and ignored them, staring at Porzingis until he glanced over at her, clearly waiting for Emma to ask her question.

She asked two.

Emma tapped her phone screen – ignoring the very obvious glares the other reporters shot her after she all but seized control of the interview – and turned back towards the door of the locker room, eyes falling on Kristoff.

He made a significant face at her, tilting his head towards the door and pushed it open, walking into the hallway and leaving Emma more than a little bit confused in his wake.

She jogged towards the hallway, glancing left and right as soon as she walked through the door, to find the trainer a few feet away, leaning up against the wall and still looking a bit frantic.

“What’s your deal?” Emma asked, laughing as she skidded to a stop in front of him. “If this is about you meeting Anna, I don’t know what to tell you. I sent pictures and very encouraging text messages telling her how awesome you are.”  
  
Emma wondered – not for the first time – how every single person in her entire life seemed to be connected in some weird web of _something_ and how she managed to end up playing matchmaker for the almost-lawyer and ice enthusiast from Minnesota. But she’d mentioned Henry a few weeks ago and how Anna had helped and, suddenly, Kristoff could barely talk of anything except meeting her.

Somewhere along the line Emma had become a romantic.

“No, no,” Kristoff said distractedly. “That’s not what I’m talking about. And we went out a couple of days ago anyway.”  
  
“What? Are you kidding me? And you didn’t start off with that?”  
  
“I had no idea you were so interested in the beginning of my almost-relationship,” Kristoff laughed. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but, no, that’s not what I was talking about. This is something different.”  
  
“Well,” Emma rationalized, trying to stuff that damn romance somewhere else where she could ignore it completely. “You’ve forced me to have a vested interest in this romance. I sent text messages, Kristoff, that’s serious stuff.”  
  
He laughed again and twisted his mouth into a slightly-mocking smile as he crossed his arms. “You want to know what I know or you want to make more vaguely sarcastic comments about me and Anna?”  
  
“I want to know what you know,” Emma sighed.

“I figured you would.”  
  
“Now you’re just lording information.”  
  
“This is incredibly off-the-record you know.”  
  
“C’mon, give me at least a little bit of credit. I won’t run with anything unless you say so or unless I get it confirmed. Now tell me what’s going on.”

“Trades.”  
  
Emma stared at him, waiting for more information. It never came. She shook her head slowly, widening her eyes. Kristoff still didn’t talk. “That’s it?” she asked.

“I feel like that’s a fairly big deal.”  
  
“Depends on the trades, I guess.”

“From what I’ve heard, it’s a big one, enormous even. The guys keep talking about it while they’re getting taped and everything. The whole team is kind of losing its mind.”  
  
“We’re months from the deadline though,” Emma argued. “Who’s just going to jump ship from one team to New York in the middle of the season.”  
  
“Off the record,” Kristoff repeated.

“I got it.”  
  
“Chris Paul.”

Emma made some kind of vaguely ridiculous noise and narrowed her eyes again in disbelief. “Come on, are you serious?” she scoffed. Kristoff just nodded. “But why would he do that? Why leave Houston to come here?”  
  
“Think about it, Emma. He can be a _real_ point guard here. Direct an offense, find some sort of fresh start in a city that hasn’t been waiting for him to emerge as the second coming of Jordan since high school. Plus, if he can direct an offense, it frees up Kristaps on the wing and they can spread the ball out. It makes sense from every angle.”  
  
Emma considered that for a moment.

It did make sense.

From every single angle – including a journalistic one.

She started pacing before she realized she was even moving. Kristoff laughed softly at her, pressing one foot up against the wall.

“See,” he said. “I told you you’d want to know.”

“The team is talking about this?” Emma asked, stopping abruptly and snapping hear heads towards Kristoff.

He nodded again. “For like the last week.”  
  
“Do they have any idea when this is happening? When would he show up?”

“I’ve got no idea. That’s not really my area of expertise, but the guys are saying soon. Two weeks, tops. I guess the Houston front office’s been talking to our brass about this since the start of the season, but they’re only just starting to fine tune the details.”  
  
“The money,” Emma corrected.

“The money.”  
  
“Jeez,” she muttered, pacing again. “You think anyone would confirm this?”  
  
“Probably not.”

Emma groaned and tugged her hair forcefully over her shoulder, racking her brain for a way to make this work. She couldn’t sit on this information – that much was obvious. The journalist in her wanted to tweet out everything Kristoff had just told her, determined to be the _first_ to break the news.

But there was another side to that journalism coin – an equally as determined force that made Emma stop herself.

Because she wanted to be right.

“Anyone else know about this?” Emma asked.

Kristoff shook his head, eyes moving back and forth as he followed Emma’s resumed pacing in front of him. “Not that I know,” he said.

“That’s good,” she muttered.

“Hey,” Kristoff said suddenly. “I know what you’re thinking. You want to run something.”

Emma nodded, holding her breath and doing her best to look encouraging. She barely let herself hope for what she needed – Kristoff to tell her to use the information. He sighed, shoulders dropping slightly as she met Emma’s gaze. “Do it,” he said. “Run it. I know it’s a big deal and this could be huge for you.”  
  
“Yeah?”

“Do it,” Kristoff repeated. “Just, you know the deal, sources said and blah blah blah. Don’t use my name, you know? I like this job. I don’t want to get fired because I’m feeding you insider info.”  
  
Emma let out a slightly crazed-laugh, bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet before practically leaping at Kristoff in the middle of the hallway and clapping her hand on his shoulder.

“Deal,” she said seriously. “Not a single mention of name or anything some very generic sources with knowledge of the situation.”  
  
“I always like when they use that one,” he said, meeting Emma’s smile with one of his own. “Makes me sound like I’m way more important than the guy who’s obsessed with ice baths and fixing muscles.”  
  
“You regularly giving out information to reporters?”  
  
“Nah, just you. I must like you or something.”  
  
“That’s good,” Emma said, muscles in her face tensing slightly as she yanked her phone out of her back pocket and started typing out tweets. “And for what it’s worth I’ll totally get Anna to give you a call again. She really liked you, you know.”  
  
“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she muttered distractedly, phone vibrating in her hand as the retweets started pouring in.

“I kind of feel like you’re paying me off for information with promises of dinner dates,” Kristoff laughed.  
  
“That is not even remotely what’s happening,” Emma said, glancing up as she started to walk back to the media room. Kristoff followed behind – momentarily distracted from ice baths and post-game stretches. “For one thing, that’s super unethical and I am on the ethical straight and narrow at all times. And, for another thing, you came to _me_ with this information. Offered it up on a metaphorical silver platter as it were.”  
  
“True,” he laughed. “But that’s because I like you more than all the other guys who cover this team. Especially the guy from _The Writer_. Hans whatever his name is? I mean, what kind of name is Hans anyway? He’s an asshole. I wouldn’t have told him. In fact, I may have told you just so you could beat him in whatever kind newspaper competition makes sense in this scenario.”  
  
Emma’s heart thudded in her chest, a dull beat that seemed to fall into rhythm with the sound of retweets and messages coming from her phone.

She hadn’t thought about that.

She’d been too caught up in the moment and _breaking news_ to consider the possibility of competing newspapers and live-in boyfriends who worked as columnists for those newspapers.

Shit.

“You ok, Emma?” Kristoff asked, grabbing her forearm as they reached the base of the stairs up out of the Garden’s baseman.

She nodded slowly – trying to rationalize that this was _bound_ to happen sooner or later and she wasn’t really beating Killian to information. She beat Hans. Killian wasn’t even involved. At all.

It was fine.

She was doing her job.

She was doing a good job.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she said, moving her hands quickly in the space between them. “Listen, I’m going to write up some stuff on this real quick and get it online before my phone actually starts smoking from all of these retweets.”  
  
“You’re a very popular reporter now, Emma Swan.”

Emma’s heart sped up again and she smiled at Kristoff. “Thanks for the heads up,” she said. “Honestly. I know you didn’t have to tell me.”  
  
He shrugged. “You work hard and I know the guys like you. A hell of a lot more than that Hans guy. If they were allowed to talk about it, they’d probably tell you first too.”  
  
“Text Anna later tonight. I know she stayed in the city for Thanksgiving. If you guys want, there’s a bunch of us going to this bar on 9th Ave – it’s like a post-game thing for me and my friends. Plus my mom and my sister are here for the holiday. I know Elsa would really like to see Anna.”  
  
“Your sister knows Anna?”  
  
Emma nodded, rolling her eyes at the absurdity of it all. Six degrees of separation felt like one now. “Yeah,” she laughed. “El and Anna lived together when they went to Michigan. That’s how I met Anna in the first place.”  
  
“Jeez, you know everyone don’t you?”  
  
“Sometimes it feels that way.”  
  
Kristoff was already typing on his phone, eyes focused entirely away from Emma and she chuckled softly under her breath, taking a few steps up the stairs. “We’ll be there for awhile,” she said. “I’m going to head over once I’m done with this Rose stuff. Maybe I’ll see you later?”  
  
“Yeah, maybe. Anna seems very enthusiastic about the idea of seeing your sister apparently.” He nodded towards his phone, shaking slightly in his hands as Anna sent half a dozen messages in quick succession.

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” Emma said, climbing up a few more steps. “I’ll see you later.”

Ninth Avenue was jam-packed with people and more people and, somehow, even more people as Emma pushed her way across the block nearly an hour later.

The blog post was already the top story on _The Record_ ’s home page and she’d gained nearly a hundred new Twitter followers in the last sixty minutes alone.

She wasn’t quite so tired anymore.

There was, after all, something to be said about the rush of adrenaline that came with breaking a story.

In this case, it may have been the biggest story of Emma’s entire career.

She weaved through a crowd of people outside the bar, but came up short when she saw someone pushing open the door, stepping into her space almost immediately.

“Swan,” Killian said, eyes meeting hers instantly and that small smile on his face doing nothing to calm Emma’s already haywire nerves.

“Hey,” she answered, stopping in front of the door suddenly. She felt someone run into her shoulder, a disgruntled _get out of the way_ behind her and glanced over to look at the crowd of people that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere as soon as she stopped walking.

“Charming,” she muttered, shooting a glare at the guy before twisting around Killian to walk into the bar. “How did you know I was here?” she asked. His hand twisted around hers quickly, fingers wrapping around her wrist as he tugged her lightly into the bar, pushing through the day-after-Thanksgiving crowd.

“Good guess,” he muttered. “And also I saw your tweets.”

“And?”  
  
“That’s a pretty incredible scoop, love.”  
  
“Seems like a good word for it.”  
  
“Hans hasn’t tweeted anything out yet. I think you might have sent him into shock. I’m sure August will wring him out on Monday.”  
  
Emma shrugged. “Just doing my job.” She eyed him warily, waiting for some sort of string of questions that didn’t seem to be coming.

“What?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at her. The rest of her family was sitting at a small table in the far corner of the – Elsa and Ingrid nursing drinks while talking to Mary Margaret who was leaning against David. She heard something about apple pie and ice cream flavor options and Emma sighed, shaking her head. She wasn’t sure how much more wedding she could talk about.  
  
“Swan?” Killian prompted again, shaking her wrist slightly. “You went all glossy there, what’s going on?”  
  
“You’re not mad?” she asked, question rolling off her tongue quickly, almost as if she didn’t actually want to say anything.

“About?”  
  
“The tweets and the blog post and the competing sides of the New York City newspaper war.”  
  
Killian laughed loudly, head ducking down to kiss Emma’s cheek quickly before he answered and she felt the blush rise up in her cheeks immediately.

It had been a stupid question.

“You’re doing your job, Swan,” he said, laughter still creeping into every syllable. “And doing it incredibly well. I could never be mad about that. Hans is an ass anyway. If anyone was going to beat him on some sort of beat scoop, I’m just happy it’s you.”

“Yeah?

“Of course.” He sighed and shook his head, running his fingers through the bottom of her hair. “Come on, this is what you’ve been working for. This is _exactly_ what you told me was at the top of that life-long to-do-list. The beat and the column and the getting to know a team well enough that they’d want to confide in you. That’s what’s happening.”  
  
Emma pressed her lips together tightly, some sort of emotion settling in the pit of her stomach at the look on Killian’s face.

He was _proud_ of her.

Jeez.

“If anything, this might help _The Record_ ’s numbers,” he added, pointing out an obvious fact that had seemingly bypassed Emma’s mind completely in the last hour or so. “Show the higher-ups how important you are to the coverage of this team.”

“So much confidence,” Emma mumbled, forehead falling against his chest.

She was kind of exhausted again.

It had been a night.

Killian’s chest shook slightly underneath her – laughing again softly – and he kissed the top of her head quickly. “In you Swan, always,” he said. His hand wrapped around her waist tightly and he turned Emma so they were walking farther back into the bar again.

Ingrid’s head snapped up – like some sort of maternal instinct that Emma had arrived – and waved quickly at the two of them, pointing at the drink in front of her and then back at Emma again.

“I would very much like a drink,” Emma said, settling into the only other open chair at the table.

“Check you out, breaking news reporter,” David muttered, flicking Emma’s arm and smiling at her. Mary Margaret and Elsa cheered slightly and Emma was certain they had rehearsed that before she got there.

“I can’t believe how long you fought social media,” Emma said. “And now you’re absolutely obsessed with Twitter.”  
  
“Well how else am I going to find out that Chris Paul is coming to New York? You’re the only one reporting it.”  
  
Emma shrugged and shook her head. “Show that appreciation by buying me a drink,” she said.

David sighed dramatically, stepping away from Mary Margaret and putting his hand on Emma’s shoulder. “That only seems fair. Come on, I don’t have enough hands to carry everything back by myself.”

Emma nodded once, glancing at Killian who – for probably the first time in his life – didn’t look even remotely curious at David’s insistence that she come with him. Instead, he was turned towards Mary Margaret, discussing the leftovers she wanted him to take back to their apartment later that night.

“You have a bigger fridge than we do,” she sighed.

“Yeah, but it’s your food.”  
  
“You made half of it.”

She trailed her fingers over Killian’s hand, earning a grin in the process, before jumping off the stool and following David who was already several steps ahead of her.

He was halfway through ordering drinks by the time Emma pushed her way through the throng of people at the bar and she shot him a questioning glance when she finally caught up to him.

“You want to tell me why you made me come over here with you now?”  
  
“I can’t want to talk to you about your great, big Twitter news?”  
  
Emma made a face, raising her eyebrow at him as he handed her a glass – rum. “You can absolutely ask me that,” she said, taking a sip of the drink and letting the alcohol shoot through her veins. It was very hot in this bar. “But I know that’s not what’s going on. Come on. We’re not good at this whole keeping secrets from each other thing.”  
  
That was the absolute truth.

For two people who had really only become friends because Mary Margaret insisted when they were twelve years old, Emma and David had one of the most honest relationships of anyone who ever lived in Storybrooke.

It was – Emma thought – because they both loved Mary Margaret so much.

“He mentioned his dad,” David said suddenly and Emma nearly fell on top of the bar. “And I know Mary Margaret told you about potential kid.”  
  
“Everyone knows about potential Mini-Nolan. I’m happy for you guys, but I’d rather not talk about the specifics of it.”  
  
“I’m not suggesting that,” he scowled, flicking his finger on her shoulder. She stuck her tongue out. “I”m just...as someone who’s dealt with his fair share of dad issues it might be a bad idea to suggest something.”  
  
“Something?”  
  
“Meeting him. Getting closure. It could help.”  
  
“That’s not really my call.”  
  
It wasn’t, but Emma would be lying if she said she hadn’t been thinking about it. And, as someone with a list of parent-related problems a mile long, she didn’t want Killian to miss this opportunity just because he was mad.

“I just...what if his dad doesn’t know about baseball?” Emma whispered. David smiled. That was, absolutely, the last thing she expected.

“Maybe he won’t,” he admitted. “But you do.”

She twisted her lips and jumped when the bartender put their drinks in front of them, practically leaping towards David when she flung her arms around his neck and held on as tightly as possible. “You’re a smart guy, Detective.”  
  
“That’s why it’s cool to try for mini-Nolan now,” he grinned into her neck. “Pass on those genetics.”

“Oh God, don’t tell me things like that.”  
  
“You know, how biology works, Emma.”  
  
“Buy me more alcohol.”

He threw his whole head back when he laughed, body shaking underneath Emma’s and her feet still weren’t on the ground. “Of course, ace,” he promised, squeezing his arms around her waist.

They drank and they laughed more and David toasted to something particularly holiday and decidedly sentimental and when they got home, Emma wasn’t sure she’d let go of Killian’s hand for more than two minutes.

“You alright, love?” he asked and she gave herself a moment to marvel at his ability to read her mind before closing the front door behind her.

Emma nodded slowly, taking a step towards him and lacing her fingers back through his, thumb tracing across scars on his left hand. “I think we should go,” she said. “To...uh, to meet your dad. Together, I mean. I just...it could be awful and terrible and if it is, I’ll be there, willing to punch anyone in the face, but it could also not be awful and you deserve that. God, you should have that and if he wants to...I don’t know, apologize for being a complete ass, then you should get that and you’ve got this family, but there’s no reason that can’t expand or whatever...I just, well, I think we should do it.”  
  
Killian blinked, but he didn’t tug his hand away. He kissed her.

Emma rocked towards him, fingers flying towards his hair and he made some kind of impossible noise when his hand moved underneath her shirt, tugging on fabric and pushing her back towards the closet wall. They stayed that way for what felt like several more Thanksgivings and she wouldn’t have argued if they had, particularly when his tongue traced across her lower lip and she moved her hands to try and tug on his belt.

“This is not how I thought this was going to go,” she admitted, laughing when his eyes flashed as soon as they stopped kissing.

He pulled back for a moment, staring at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was there and wanted to make sure she stayed there forever. “You’d...Swan, you’d do that?”

“Of course.” It sounded like a promise. It felt like a promise. It felt like something big and holiday and he was proud of her for breaking news. On a competing newspaper. “I love you,” she added and Killian’s smile could probably power the entire Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

“I love you, Emma,” he said and she felt it in every inch of her. He kept saying it – over and over and in between kisses and laughter and, somehow, they tugged off clothes and made it to some kind of bed-type thing and he said it again when they stood on a sidewalk in NoHo a week later, fingers tight around hers when they went to meet more family.

Together.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was part of my Great, Big Captain Swan Thanksgiving Prompt-a-Thon and someone asked for another look into the YPLAG verse. So here is everything about YPLAG in a 10K burst - angst and deadlines and Emma and Killian making out on Thanksgiving. 
> 
> Someday I'll sit down and write a full sequel. It's on a list. In the meantime come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


End file.
